Kaleidoscope Eyes
by shipperfey
Summary: Her only regret for the night was that she hadn’t heard him sing. HouseCameron, post Que Sera, Sera.


Title: Kaleidoscope Eyes (1/1)

Author: Alice J. Foster

Summary: _Her only regret for the night was that she hadn't heard him sing._

Category: Romance, Angst

Spoilers: **"Que Será, Será"** (3x06) – Picks up soon after the end of the episode.

Pairing(s): House/Cameron

Rating: M

Started: 11/08/06

Finished: 11/08/06

Warnings: sex, graphic sex, angst. I think that covers it.

* * *

She listened to the sounds of the electric guitar playing _Lucy in the Sky_ for over a minute before raising her hand to knock on the door. She shuffled the bag in her hand back and forth nervously.

Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly  
A girl with kaleidoscope eyes

The lyrics were only in her mind, though she would've loved to hear his own voice singing it off-key through the thick wooden door of his apartment; she wasn't that lucky and she noticed he waited until he played the end of the song to see who was knocking.

There was evident surprise in his eyes before it was replaced by annoyance, and just a tiny bit of curiosity.

"Oh… I thought Wilson had lost his spare key to my castle of doom," he examined her carefully before a smirk appeared. "Couldn't sleep?"

"How did you know?" She asked before she could help it.

He moved to allow her into the apartment, sitting himself on the armchair a few feet away from the amplified. He glanced at her, picking up the recently discarded guitar. "Well, you're not wearing any make-up and you haven't removed your coat, so you're probably in your sleep clothes. And the bottle-shaped paper bag you're holding tells me this isn't a planned visit… Went for a midnight walk to clear your mind and decided to come liquor me up?"

She rolled her eyes. "Your deductive powers are amazing, _Doctor_."

He smiled. "Plus your hormones are all crazy, which must be the cause of your insomnia."

"I am **not** PMSing," she insisted.

He snorted. "Yes, you are. Twenty-four days ago you were popping Ibuprofen and complaining of a headache, then you were late for work the next day. So I predict you should be getting your… _monthlies_ in three—maybe four—days."

She refused to look embarrassed (which she knew was his objective in using the word 'monthlies' when he could've used common medical terms) and instead she just placed the brown paper bag-wrapped bottle on the sidetable, and removed her coat. Luckily her 'sleep clothes' were black sweatpants and a red tank top tonight, so she didn't feel too self-conscious.

Ignoring him, she walked to his kitchen in search of glasses; her knowledge of his habits luckily rivaled his of hers, so she quickly found the right cabinet: the one farthest from the sink and the fridge. Typical male.

The familiar notes of Pink Floyd's _Wish You Were Here_ flooded the apartment as she returned to the living room.

"Your neighbors must hate you," she pointed out, and he increased the volume on the amplifier with his good leg.

"If they have any musical taste, they love me; if they don't, then in all fairness they shouldn't be alive to begin with."

She turned away from him to pour each of them each a doubleshot of tequila. The glasses looked expensive, simple and tasty at the same time – probably one of the Stacy-era mementos, or perhaps a Wilson-inspired purchase.

Not that House was completely inept at decorating or lacking in good taste, but his apartment was obviously thrown together haphazardly, random tasteful and expensive stuff placed together with ugly or cheap items bought for comfort or just to spite something or someone. The end result was all House, which made it quite nice in her eyes, but she wasn't about to admit it to him as she placed the tequila on top of the amplifier.

Cameron then moved to sit on the couch, putting her feet up so that he could only see part of her profile and most of her back – if he tried to look at her at all. She didn't understand why they had this strange sense of comfort between them, where they would never go out for a drink together at a bar, but she could jog to his apartment in the middle of the night after a tough case, and it felt natural to move around in his apartment like it was her own, putting her feet up on the couch and sipping from an expensive bottle of tequila.

They sat in an almost comfortable, almost silence as he played an impressive repertoire (Janis Joplin, CCR, The Cure, Ramones, The Who and some other stuff she didn't recognize). She still didn't get to hear him sing, but he did hum to some songs, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up in an enticing way.

She wasn't drunk – far from it. She'd only refilled her glass once and he hadn't even made a move to drink what she'd originally poured for him.

The clock on his VCR blinked _12:00_ at her, and she figured he'd be the type to never ever set the thing correctly. It was probably around 4am and she'd gotten there around midnight; she dimly realize that he hadn't taken any pills either, the whole time she'd been there.

She turned her head towards him, as he finished playing _Everybody Hurts_ by R.E.M.. His eyes met hers briefly, and there was something in them she couldn't quite figure out…

… it wasn't love. That much she knew; but it was something that hadn't been there before. A mix between all his previous looks at her plus something new, something that made her stomach do flips so hard and fast she thought she was going to faint, or seize, or breakdown.

She quickly averted her eyes; for someone who'd been pushing him for over two years to admit he liked her, she sure as hell had no idea what to do if she ever succeeded. Just the idea that he would look at her in a new way terrified her this much… if she ever saw love in his eyes, she would probably run like mad.

She gulped down the remainder of the alcohol that had been sitting in her glass and stood up. "I should get going," she added as she clutched her coat between her fingers.

"Don't." It was barely a whisper, but she heard it clearly.

"What?" Confusion filled her voice as she gulped dryly.

"Stay." It sounded like a command, even as a whisper. "Please, stay… I—I can't—" he sounded so vulnerable and she could hardly hear him, so she moved closer, dropping her coat somewhere on his floor, desperate to hear what he had to say, even as what was left of her self-respect told her this was the time to walk away.

"Why?"

"I… I am not sure. I'm sorry, I know this isn't what you want to hear—"

She cut him off. "Don't worry about what you think I want to hear. Why do you want me to stay?"

"Everything's quickly going down the shitter. I can't believe I'm telling you this…" he trailed off for a few seconds. "I'm scared." He admitted.

Her hand slowly reached out to clutch his shoulder, an inverted reflection of his reaction after she'd euthanized her first patient ever. "You're thinking of the charges?"

"No." He exhaled loudly. "Yes… I mean, it's all I could think about for the past couple of days. Except for when I was thinking about the case, or when I was thinking about your interest in the case…and then you showed up here tonight, and since I saw you in that flattering tank top and those tight sweatpants, I have hardly thought of Tritter's rotting crotch and how I'm very likely about to spend some time in jail, not to mention lose my license and my life savings with a lawyer who'll do his best to fuck me over almost as much as the little cop with a complex. So, please—don't leave."

The world twirled around her as she bent down to touch her lips to him. Her almost subconscious decision to kiss him had almost nothing to do with the fact that he'd practically just acted very much unlike him, and admitted he was vulnerable and wanted (if not needed) her presence. No, her decision had a lot to do with the fact that she figured a kiss, and whatever it led to, would be even more effective in distracting him (and herself) from the shitstorm that was headed their way.

To her surprise, he responded to the kiss, and his hand quickly moved to the back of her neck to hold her down. She tried to pull back slightly because she was standing, he was sitting, and the position was uncomfortable, but he protested so she gave in. She was not sure what to make of this new side of him, this needy and vulnerable side; it was scary and interesting all at once.

The hand that wasn't holding her to him, moved to her stomach and under her tank top. He didn't lose time before feeling up her breasts, and she felt his groan against her lips and tongue. Somehow she always knew he'd be a fast one – and she certainly didn't mind it. While foreplay was enjoyable enough, she much favored moving through it as fast as possible so she could enjoy the main part longer (just how long didn't depend on her, but she had a feeling that House would not have any problems in that department).

As if to prove he was as eager as she expected him to be, he pulled her over the arm of the armchair that divided them and onto his lap, with just a little of her own help. She finally allowed her own hands to do some exploring of their own, and her thigh pressed against the hardness it found trapped between their bodies. She moaned as the hardness pressed back, burning hot and unyielding.

He surprised her again by completely stopping and pulling away from her, pushing her into getting up. She was scared for a second until he pointed towards the bedroom. She bit her lip and nodded.

They stopped somewhere in the hallway as he pushed her against the wall; she'd never used the word 'ravaged' before, but that's how she felt after he was done with what some would call kissing, but actually felt like he was trying to merge his self with hers. She'd never been this wet either, not in her entire sexual life – most of which had been quite good.

_This _was better.

There was a trail left of their clothes as they finally reached his bedroom, the unmade bed was very inviting as he pushed her down onto it and got in with her, bad leg first and all. It was dark except for some outside light and the occasional passing car that would allow her some glimpse of him. She wished she could reach for the light switch; so she could see all of him, but then his hands touched her where she needed it the most and her eyes shut of their own volition. The light was forgotten as ecstasy slowly but surely took her over.

The familiar sound of foil ripping in half was loud in the silent room, and before she could offer any assistance, he'd expertly taken care of it. He was back on top of her, his body heavy and hot. Her legs were awkwardly hanging over the edge of the mattress and he apparently decided to take advantage of that, because he got off the bed and pulled her down until her hip was positioned just right and he stood between her open legs. She didn't have time to object to how the position would affect his leg as he pressed against her entrance, softly and insistently all at once. Her muscles protested but quickly gave in and she moaned loudly, sweat breaking out in small and almost invisible drops all over her body as pleasure flooded her.

He was quite vocal himself, though it was mostly grunts and pleas as he pushed himself as deep as he could go. Her first orgasm only seemed to make him decide this should last as long as possible; she definitely understood why, seeing as how the chance of a reprise any time soon was very unlikely.

The repeated pressure against get more sensitive spots were causing all of her internal muscles to spasm wildly, as a response to the extended stimuli; it felt almost like menstrual cramps, except they didn't exactly hurt. The rest of her muscles – in her legs, her back, her arms, were strained as tight as they would go, on the verge of pain. She couldn't speak, she found out as only garbled speech came out of her when she tried, and she was concerned that if she tried again, he would think she was having a stroke and he'd stop for a differential mid-stroke.

Then again, it was very unlikely any of them could stop at his point.

She briefly realized this was the culmination of what they'd gone through, everything from the moment he'd interviewed her (if you could call the 30-second conversation and his 3-minute ogling an interview), to their disastrous dinner and to the moment he was shot. Every conversation they'd had, every time they'd fooled themselves, and lied to one another and most importantly, admitted something to each other they wouldn't have to anyone else—it all led to this.

She tried to lift herself up by pushing with her elbows against the mattress; she only succeeded in temporarily altering the angle of his thrusts and her third or fourth orgasm washed over her, short and hard and overwhelming. After she collapsed on her back again, his sweaty hands found their place just above her hips, as he finally allowed himself to climax.

When he was done riding out his own orgasm, she was grateful that he collapsed sideways on the bed, instead of on top of her. Her body was still shaking quietly and she didn't think she could've taken the weight of him without triggering even more post-orgasmic spasms through her body.

A minute or ten went by and she watched him get up in the dark and limp to the bathroom; she felt almost guilty for the strain he'd put on his leg, but since she'd tried to protest, then it was mostly his own fault.

He had not taken any pills that night from what she'd seen, which meant he'd given her some of the best sex of her life while in considerable pain; she wondered what he'd be like with no pain and just that thought was enough to make her want to write him a prescription herself. But that's what he was in trouble for currently (well, that and his attitude), so she was **not** about to offer him drugs.

The post-casual sex panic kicked in as she realized she had no idea what to do – get up and get dressed before he got back from the bathroom, or stay and have an awkward 'where we stand' conversation. This was ten times worse than when she and Chase had sex, because then she'd been high, and in her own domain.

Plus she'd never blackmailed Chase into going on a dinner with her, or tried to get him to admit his latent feelings for her—she'd actually preferred if he kept his feelings to himself.

So this… with House… was definitely worse. Before she could decide what to do, he returned, apparently having located his underwear from somewhere between the bed and the bathroom. She caught a brief glimpse of it as another car passed by, and she thanked whoever was driving that late at night (actually, that early in the morning), because it was a wonderful sight.

_Down, girl._ She told herself, the soreness of her muscles helping her realize that another go was not likely for a while. Which was a pity, because it would definitely avoid the awkwardness that was settling in; plus if you do it more than once, it doesn't really count as long as it's on the same night. Or so she'd heard.

"Uh…" he started.

"Yeah…" she added and he chuckled softly under his breath.

"You can, uh… stay—I mean, if you want to. We have to be up in a couple of hours, so we could probably get some sleep, then I'll drive you to your apartment in the morning so you can get clothes." He explained awkwardly. "Or not… either way, it's fine."

"That sounds, uh, great." She replied so he could relax somewhat, plus she was too tired to go home now. He grabbed a pillow out of a closet and handed it to her, the smell of fresh laundry and new pillow telling her no one had used this before.

The two moved to the top of the bed, and thankfully, he slept on the opposite side of the bed as her, so that avoided another awkward moment. She figured he wasn't the cuddling type, and she was apparently right. He did surprise her by placing his hand on her hip as she lay on her side, facing away from him.

Her only regret for the night was that she hadn't heard him sing.

The last thing she heard before she fell asleep was his soft snore.


End file.
